


beacon in the night

by cursinginenochian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel In Love, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel is a Winchester, Charlie Ships It, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Depression, Fallen Angels, Gen, Guilt, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Sam is the Voice of Reason, Season/Series 09, Sick Castiel, Slow Burn, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:56:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursinginenochian/pseuds/cursinginenochian
Summary: Castiel's been human for approximately five days, fourteen hours, fifteen minutes and seven... eight... nine seconds.





	beacon in the night

**Author's Note:**

> title from ingrid michaelson and sara bareilles' winter song

At some point, Castiel notices the sky is red. 

 

He thinks it’s because of the snow speckling his face and soaking into his shoes until they feel four or five pounds heavier than before, but who’s to know for sure? One thing he  _ does  _ know is that it’s cold enough to completely obliviate all feeling in his feet. His shoes themselves have been cast away earlier, into a deep snowbank collected on the curb of a convenience store’s parking lot entrance. The ever persistent  _ squish  _ of plastic footwear against the sopping fabric of his socks kept throwing off his rhythm of  _ step, step, rest, trudge, rest, repeat.  _

 

Believe it or not, he’s got a sort of system going, if only so he can stop focusing on how brittle his fingers feel, and it’s difficult enough to track the sounds that go with the movements enough with the cold winter’s wind blowing in his ears, nevermind when he can’t hear over that annoying wet sound. He had to fish them out and put them back on after a few minutes of silence, though, because what had once been numb quickly morphed into blinding white hot pain, pain running rapid up and down the nerves of his vessel's. . . no,  _ his  _ feet until Cas thought he might just die right then and there. It’s too cold to think, and since he can’t ask for help from the heavenly host he has to follow the sounds. A steady  _ crunch  _ is proof enough that he’s going somewhere… if only he knew what he was walking towards. 

Maybe he’s delirious. He doesn’t know and wouldn’t be able to tell if he tried. All he  _ does  _ know is it’s all the snow's fault, probably. There's a searing cold nestled in between his ribs that's been curled up in his body since he stumbled his way out of the crater he made when he fell. 

 

With every crunch filled step, he’s reminded he has nothing now. Castiel -- former Angel of the Lord, great Seraph, a leader of his very own -- is as helpless as the billions of snowflakes getting trampled under his stiff, tired feet. He almost pities them, left to melt between the plastic grooves of Jimmy Novak’s age old Sunday dress shoes. 

 

_ I stole this body,  _ he thinks, then reaches his hands into the stolen pockets of his stolen coat. There’re only three quarters in his coat pocket and he needs at least five to call Dean.

Who knows if he’d answer the call of a fallen angel anyway?

 

Castiel's been human for approximately five days, fourteen hours, fifteen minutes and seven... eight... nine seconds. His hands are bloodied, palms scraped open from when he fell,  _ literally _ , after tripping on his own feet and skidding onto the cold wet asphalt. He was on the ground before he even had time to realize a mistake in his footing and his hands have stung badly ever since. He'd like to say it feels like his grace is seeping right out of the pink, sticky skin but sadly, by now, he's felt that exact sensation before. A little bit of blood certainly doesn't compare to his very being having been cut out of his throat. No, this is something new, this tingling, spotty feeling. It's almost like bits of wood and gravel are wedged into every crevice and puncture that litters his shaky, barely calloused hands. Then again, that's probably just the case. 

 

Before he can begin to ponder on what to do about such a thing, a particularly strong gust of wind has him gasping for breath, bent forward with his worn palms held tight against his shaking knees.  _ God _ , this is miserable. 

A weathered sign that must have been cemented into the road side's overgrown grass for many many decades informs him he's been wandering along the entrance to Kingston, Colorado, but that means absolutely nothing to him. At least he knows how many miles away from the very church where the Winchester's contacted him last… vaguely. The very church, he muses, where Sam Winchester was fated to die. Where Hell was going to be isolated from every world and realm for all of eternity before Castiel had gone and screwed everything up. That's what he assumes. 

 

Why there'd be any reason for Sam Winchester to simply give up after must have been months and months of painful sacrifice, he can't begin to guess. Unless Dean has something to do with it. 

 

It's not the first time the thought's crossed the angel's... well,  _ human's  _ mind, but it worries Castiel all the same. He fishes through his trench coat's pockets, through fabric as dirtied and bloodied as the rest of him, for the small phone Dean gave him so long ago before realizing he's already ransacked every pocket and fold before at least five or six times, has gone as far as tearing the coat off in a hapless attempt to shake out the little rectangular piece of pure hope. Doing so had foolishly exposed the inside of his jacket to the relentless snowfall that soaked it thoroughly.  

 

He looks again, humanly, dumbly, going as far as to sitting down on the dirty curbside to take his jacket off once more, shaking it carefully so if the phone somehow does show itself after days of playing invisible, it won't fall into the ever-growing drifts gathering at his feet. It's nowhere to be found. 

Castiel's soaked. He shivers under three layers of sopping wet clothes, exhausted. 

 

_ Perhaps this is my time _ , he thinks, before letting himself fall once more. He lays back into the muddied ground, halfway atop the roadside while his legs still sit folded on the street, freezing rain and snowflakes pelting his face and clouding his eyes. He closes them.

 

_ Only for a moment _ .

 

Visions of his brothers and sisters burning and plundering to the cold, ugly earth ambush the dark recess of his mind and Castiel jolts back into a sitting position once more, chest heaving. 

 

The sickeningly familiar landscape of thick woods greets him. Pine trees and telephone poles towered over him, reaching fruitlessly towards the blue-gray overcast sky like bony, clawed fingers. It almost reminds him of Purgatory, almost, but after a while, Cas gives up on pretending he’s back in that monster-infested wasteland. At least there he would be searching and be running and fighting for  _ something _ , if only that something was the need for forgiveness, for repentant of his sins, or to gaze into the eyes of one human, who's eye stood out against the gray sludge of Purgatory. But here, human and weak, he is purposeless. 

 

The thought of Dean makes him climb back to his feet. The thought of Dean finding him, cold, blue, and frozen… if Castiel does anything with his few remaining days he’s going to make sure it’s not that. HIs vision spots black as he waivers where he stands, and the sheer pain of  _ coldness  _ is enough to drive away the visions of his fallen brothers and sisters when he screws his eyes tightly shut once more. 

 

It takes hours before he finds shelter at an abandoned cell phone store; it’s wide, tall overhead creates a patch of sidewalk free of snow. With trembling legs, he tumbles onto the concrete knees first and feels the skin underneath his black dress pants break, warming his frigid kneecaps with auburn blood. Castiel blows a breath out desperately, trying and failing to stop shaking. He’s just so  _ tired _ , every tremble of his shoulders exhausting him further. 

  
A feeling he’s never felt before swells in his chest, climbing up his throat. He gags, heaves, but nothing comes up. Castiel only then realizes he’s hungry, his insides aching for nourishment just as they had when he was under the grip of Pestilence what feels like so many eons ago. As he leans against the brick wall of the establishment whose existence he is oh so thankful for, he allows himself to drift again, to warm places, to that peculiar human -- Dean Winchester.


End file.
